


For the Prince Who Has Everything

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 04:50:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12697728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: From outside of the closet door, there's another shift of fabric, and he can hear Noct breathing. It seems louder than it ought to – not really the slow, steady in and out of someone getting ready to drift off to sleep. The fabric shifts again, and Prompto inches forward, frowning, to risk a peek.And there's Noct, pants unbuttoned and eased down around his hips, a single swath of pale skin visible between the rich black of his button-up shirt and the slate grey of his slacks.





	For the Prince Who Has Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Man, this is not up to my usual standards, and I'm so sorry. This is what happens when you try and write a fic in fifteen or thirty minute snatches before heading in to work for the day. orz
> 
> Anyway, he's my shot at Day 1 of FFXV NSFW Week: mutual masturbation.

If someone asked the best thing about having Noct as a friend, it would take Prompto a while to answer.

He's got about three hundred things to choose from: late nights slowly drifting off on Noct's couch with the cheesy moan of B-movie zombies on the TV. That one morning he coerced Noct into waking up early to go running with him, and they ended up on a high-rise parking structure early enough to watch the sun come up. Sharing dumb puns, and dumber inside jokes.

Noct's smile, and Noct's voice, and the way Noct's eyes dart to one side when he's embarrassed.

He likes a lot of things about Noct. Prompto kind of has a crush the size of a catoblepas.

But if someone asked the worst thing about having Noct as a friend?

Well, Prompto'd have an answer for that, too.

Because going gift shopping for the prince of Insomnia is like playing the video game of his life on nightmare difficulty.

Everything Noct wants, Noct has. If there's something he mentions off-handedly that he's been eyeing, chances are good it will show up in his apartment before two weeks are out.

Prompto's best strategy is to distract the hell out of him after he mentions something, in hopes that it'll knock the thing right out of his mind. Then Prompto can run out and buy it, and spend the days till the big day counting down and hoping Noct's impatience doesn't kill the gift.

But this year.

This year, Prompto's ready. This year, Prompto started planning eight months ago, and he has _got_ this.

Okay, so it took discipline. He's been saving most of his paycheck for the duration – had to cut some things out of his budget to make room. His running shoes have had holes in the soles for four months now, and he's skipping lunch most days, but dammit, the look on Noct's face is going to be worth it.

Because he, Prompto Argentum, has a wind-up Lord Vexxos.

Sure, it's not the first edition. They only ever made, like, one of those.

But this is a replica, and it's a damn good replica. Every detail is lovingly sculpted: the eyes glitter with mischief and malevolence, and the fabric drapes just like real cloth. When you wind it up, Lord Vexxos tips his head back and cackles his tiny evil cackle, and the sound matches the audio from the game exactly.

For a Justice Monsters fan as big as Noct is, it's the ultimate birthday present.

The best part is, Prompto doesn't even think he knows it's out yet. When the release date got pushed forward, Prompto kept it to himself and started formulating his plans.

So now here he is, sneaking into the apartment of the crown prince of Lucis. It's probably an offense that could get him executed for treason, but it's going to be so worth it.

It's not even all that hard. The door man knows him. The Crownsguard stationed downstairs give him a wry smirk and a go-ahead when he flashes the toy, a bow stuck on its head and a note that reads, "Happy birthday, dude," attached.

Now it's just a matter of squeezing into the living room window Noct always leaves cracked open, failing to catch himself before he face plants on the ground, and being absurdly grateful no one's around to see him make an idiot of himself as he brushes himself off and makes for the bedroom.

He knows his way around the place. Hell, he practically lived here when finals hit their senior year. It was notecards and textbooks up to their eyeballs, Ignis swooping in nightly to pry them away for long enough to eat dinner.

Anyway, all that time bunked down and studying's good for something. He makes a beeline straight for the bedroom and lets himself in – plunks the toy down on the center of the duvet and calls it a job well done. He's just about to head back to the window and hope he's a little more graceful on the way out when he hears the key in the lock.

Crap.

Figures this would be the one day Noct's home early.

He freezes there, in the center of the bedroom, indecisive, and by the time his brain kicks into gear and decides what it wants to do, the footsteps are halfway down the hall and half his options are gone.

Get the hell out is off the table. The next most reasonable thing – smiling sheepishly and just handing the present over – kind of ruins the mystery of seeing Lord Vexxos pillowed perfectly in the center of Noct's bed, in all his evil glory.

And anyway, Prompto's brain's never been great at making good decisions on a split second's notice.

He snatches up the toy and dives for the closet.

Prompto gets the door mostly shut just as Noct comes into the room. His hand, paralyzed with sudden fear, lets go of the doorknob and he backpedals a few frantic steps out of the light. If he tries to close it the rest of the way now, he'll give himself away for sure.

The best he can hope for is that Noct will be in and out. Maybe he just needs to grab something before he's on his way to another meeting.

But no – that's the sound of the bed creaking as Noct flops down, and Prompto risks a peek through the cracked-open door to find that his best friend is splayed out like an exhausted  starfish.

Naptime, then. That'll work. As soon as Noct's out cold, he can sneak out and leave the toy on the kitchen counter or something. It might not be as good as dead center in the middle of the bed, but Lord Vexxos surrounded by bananas and a loaf of bread does have a certain kind of charm.

Prompto settles in to wait, but he knows he won't have to wait long. Once Noct's horizontal, it's pretty much guaranteed that he'll be dead asleep in five minutes or less.

There's a soft rustle of fabric – Noct getting more comfy, probably – and then silence. Pressed back against the closet wall, Prompto holds his breath, grip tight on Lord Vexxos.

A minute drags by. Then two.

From outside of the closet door, there's another shift of fabric, and he can hear Noct breathing. It seems louder than it ought to – not really the slow, steady in and out of someone getting ready to drift off to sleep. The fabric shifts again, and Prompto inches forward, frowning, to risk a peek.

And there's Noct, pants unbuttoned and eased down around his hips, a single swath of pale skin visible between the rich black of his button-up shirt and the slate grey of his slacks. There's Noct, hand on his cock, head tipped back and staring up toward the ceiling – Noct with a flush of pleasure starting on his cheeks – Noct, whose breathing is so loud because he's doing it open-mouthed.

Prompto yanks back like he's been burned.

He trips his way a few clumsy footsteps back from the door – staggers and nearly goes down. In the rush of don't-hear-me panic, he gets a hand out to stop his fall, and the hand that he gets out is the one holding Lord Vexxos.

He catches the wall, but the wall catches something else, too. It catches the key on Lord Vexxos' back, and it drags, and Prompto's just straightening up again when a tiny, evil laugh fills the closet.

Prompto freezes.

He's sure his life is ending.

He's sure the universe is ending.

Time has become one long, infinite moment, and his breath is stuck in his lungs, and the horror in his chest is like ice.

This is how you ruin friendships. This is how you get someone to hate you. This is the worst moment of his life, and that counts his seventh birthday, when his parents promised they'd be home but weren't, and he waited in the living room until 2 am, hoping they were just caught in traffic, until he fell asleep with his head pillowed on the kitchen table.

"Who's there?" says Noct.

And there's no choice, really. Not unless he wants to dig a hole in the floorboards and hide in there until his body starts to decompose.

So he clears his throat, and he says. "Uh. Hi?"

And Noct says, "Prompto?" in a voice that's strained and kind of higher pitched than usual, and a second later, Noct is throwing open the closet door.

His face is flushed and his hair is rumpled, and his shirt's untucked, hanging down over a very, very obvious erection. Despite the stomach-churning anxiety sweeping over Prompto in waves, his brain takes the time to register how unfairly good Noct looks like that.

Then he realizes that Noct's still looking at him. Just _looking_ at him, waiting for an answer. If this was the kind of porn Prompto liked to watch, he'd say something smooth like, "Want a hand with that?" and it would turn out his crush wasn't so unrequited after all, and they would both collapse onto Noct's bed.

In real life, words stick in his throat. He says, "I. I was just."

Noct's still looking.

This is it. This is how he dies. It feels like iron bands are crushing his chest so tight the ribs are going to grind against his spine. He can't breathe, and the world is going cold and kind of spinny. His eyes are stinging, and he tells himself, roughly, not to even think about crying.

He shoves Lord Vexxos toward Noct's chest, blinking hard against the blur at the corners of his vision. Noct's hands come up, bewildered, to close around the toy, and Prompto says, "It was supposed to be a surprise," and his voice shakes a little in the middle of the sentence.

Noct glances down at his present – at the bow and the note still attached

And Prompto – Prompto pushes past him and makes for the door, fleeing like a godsdamned coward.

If he can just make it out, he never has to look Noct in the eye again. Not like that'll be a challenge; he's sure his now-ex-best-friend will do more than his part in avoiding the hell out of the creep who was hiding in his closet.

He's almost to the front door when he hears Noct's voice call from down the hallway: "Prompto!"

Prompto ducks his head and reaches for the doorknob, and suddenly the air around him explodes into a flash of blue radiance, all shimmering shards and glimmers of magic, and Noct is standing there in front of him, blocking the exit.

He looks intent and wild-eyed, and Prompto cringes from that expression. Then Noct is reaching out with his free hand and taking hold of Prompto's shoulder, hard enough to hurt, and he says, "Where the hell did you find a _wind-up Lord Vexxos_?"

Prompto stares at him.

Noct stares back.

"Uh," says Prompto. "They pushed the release date forward. On the second run."

Noct's eyes go down to the toy again. He turns the key in Lord Vexxos' back, with reverent care, and when the tinny cackle comes out, he says, "They used the audio from the game," with a boyish kind of wonder.

He's grinning, and the bands of iron around Prompto's chest relax enough for him to smile back.

"Happy birthday, dude," says Prompto. "Sorry about, uh. Having the world's worst timing."

For the first time, Noct seems to remember that his shirt's still untucked, and his pants are still unbuttoned. He goes a dusky sort of pink, and his eyes dart toward the floor. He licks at his lips, and he says, "Didn't mean to give you a show."

But oh man, what a show.

Prompto's gone mostly soft in the past few moments of heart-pounding terror, but those words remind him of the scene: Noct with his head tipped back, throat long and pale and exposed. The sound of rustling fabric and panted breath. The way the skin between the bottom of Noct's shirt and the top of his slacks looked, smooth and tempting.

Prompto's cock stirs back to life, there in his jeans.

"Uh," says Prompto. "If it helps, I didn't mean to be around for one." He's blushing himself, now; he can feel the heat creeping down over his neck and up across his ears. "A-anyway. I'll take off and let you get back to it."

It's a pretty thought – Noct waiting until he's gone and then heading back to his room. Noct sliding a hand down into his slacks and picking up where he left off, a leisurely sort of exploration. Even the thought compounds the problem in Prompto's jeans; they feel too tight all of a sudden, damn near unbearable, and he thinks, with a flush of shame, that he'd better get out of here before Noct notices.

So of course that's when Noct glances up from the floor.

And of course his line of sight catches on the shape of Prompto, neon-obvious through the tight denim.

And of course his eyes flare wide and dart toward Prompto's face, shocked and seeking an answer.

Prompto tries to say something – anything – but all that comes out is a croak.

This is it. _This_ is how his life ends. He'd thought he was spared before, but it was only a five-minute reprieve. If he could run for the door, he would, but Noct's still blocking it.

Maybe he can squirm back out the window he came in. It seems like the best option he has right now. He wills himself to move – stands frozen stock-still as his brain yells with ever-progressing panic for him to get the hell out.

"I'll, uh," Prompto manages. "Sorry. I'll go."

But his feet still aren't listening, and Noct's not moving, either. He's just kind of standing there, staring with an expression Prompto doesn't know how to parse.

Noct reaches a hand up in slow-motion, like he's moving underwater, and puts it on Prompto's shoulder. The touch is warm, but Prompto shivers at the contact anyway.

Then Noct says, "So, how _was_ the show?" low and a little hoarse, and it sends a tendril of warmth curling down Prompto's spine. He wonders if Noct's been watching the same kind of porn he has, because that line, in that particular tone of voice, sounds straight out of one of Prompto's favorite videos.

"Um," he says, intelligently.

"I just mean," says Noct, "you don't _have_ to go."

And that's – that's. That can't be what Prompto thinks it is. There's no way his best friend just threw that offer out, casual as anything. But there are Noct's eyes, night sky blue, staring at him sharp and intent. And there's Noct's hand on his shoulder, the skin warm even through the fabric of Prompto's shirt.

Prompto opens his mouth. He closes it again.

He says, "Noct?" because he can’t make his mouth ask whether Noct _wants_ him to stay.

Noct considers him for a moment longer. He doesn't answer – just leans in and brushes his lips against Prompto's cheek.

It's surprisingly soft. Prompto wishes he was the poetic type. He could've compared it to the petals of some flower that grows on a mountain somewhere, rare and perfect, but he doesn't know plants.

Instead he just stands there, dazed and gaping like an idiot.

He says, "Holy shit," and then he immediately wishes he'd said something cooler. But he can't care too much, because he's busy leaning in and pressing his lips to Noct's.

It's clumsy, and awkward, and really damn good.

Noct's mouth parts for him, and then the slick warmth of a tongue is pressing against his, and Prompto feels light-headed and a little dizzy.

Noct's arms come up around his waist, and Prompto's arms slide in around Noct's shoulders, and when Noct tugs him nearer, Lord Vexxos gives his tinny cackle, and they both break for breath, bright-eyed and laughing.

"Dude," says Prompto, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. "Way to kill the mood."

Noct quirks an eyebrow at him, and reaches out, casually, to set Lord Vexxos on the shelf by the entryway. "Says the guy who started it."

 "Hey," says Prompto. "It worked out, right?"

Noct pins him with a look, then. It's the kind of look those magazines that are aimed at teen girls – the ones that Prompto absolutely refuses to admit that he owns – try to capture when they get the prince in for photoshoots. It's sultry and intense, and Prompto shivers at the sight of it.

"I dunno," says Noct. "You gonna make up for interrupting me, or what?"

And that – that's an invitation if Prompto's ever heard one. He bites at his lip, and he leans in, and he reaches for the open front of Noct's pants.

He's hard already – or maybe still. The length of him is thick and heavy against Prompto's palm, and it's kind of weird, holding someone else's cock. All he's got for reference are the nights he spends alone with his own hand, but that doesn't come with the same dizzying rush of desire. That doesn't come with Noct's soft indrawn breath, or the twitch of Noct's hips, looking for more.

Then Prompto starts to move, and Noct's breath hitches, and he ducks his head and spreads his legs a little. And that – holy gods, that is the hottest thing Prompto has ever seen, porn included. That is like next level hotness. That is like the Infernian dumping a bucket of coal into Mt. Ravatogh and then dropping the sun on top of it.

He's just thinking that nothing will ever top this moment for hotness when Noct reaches out and drags down the zipper on Prompto's jeans and proves him very, very wrong.

It's a little unreal, how good it feels. It's way, way better than anything has any right to be – like he's about to go off like a firework, barely even touched.

He tightens his grip and goes a bit harder, determined not to finish first, and Noct lets out a strangled noise that goes straight to Prompto's cock. Every upstroke is just firm enough to scratch all the right itches, and every downstroke ends with the swipe of Noct's calloused thumb against the head. It's kind of incredible.

Noct fumbles for him, trying to pull him in close, and their mouths find each other again, sloppy and uncertain.

Prompto redoubles his efforts, and just like that, it's over. Just like that, Noct goes stiff against him, tension all across his thighs and down his back. He shakes when he comes, and lets out a quiet, satisfied sort of groan, and Prompto files that away for lonely nights in the future with just himself and his own hand.

It occurs to him, for the first time, that maybe those nights are going to happen less often, now.

It occurs to him for the first time that this might be more than a one-off thing, and even the thought of it – of tumbling into Noct's bed on some lazy Saturday afternoon – is enough to send him plummeting over the edge.

He whimpers as he comes, and Noct works him through it, until he's shaking and spent, head pressed to the crook between Noct's neck and shoulder.

"Wow," he says, when he can talk again, breathless and uncertain.

"Yeah," says Noct, and his voice is a hush, fond and warm. "Me, too."

Prompto pulls back just slightly, to smile up at him – takes in the crinkles at the corners of Noct's eyes, and that familiar, slanted smile.

"Happy birthday, dude," he says.

But honestly, Prompto feels like he's the one who got the present.


End file.
